Let's try this again with the html junk.

Send a Text Message

Phone # Your txt message

Get this at TextU.org

Howdy, y'all...
It's been a while since I actually posted anything that was similar to a blog; my life's been complicated, putting it mildly. My Mom's at the vaguely neurotic stage of her pregnancy, on-and-off-at-the-same-freaking-time first semi-steady girl is being just that, a "close" friend ended up not being quite so close, a friend who's actually my sister's pissed at me about the existence of said girl (she's a precognate -I'm normally a skeptic but she's very accurate - and it apparently won't end nicely), and I've been grounded for the first time in my life. Emo cat goez to find hiz emo corner.

Lol, in other - much more pleasant - news, I haz made a hat of ozzumness!!!! I've been crocheting for a while, but I've finally made a really cool hat I like wearing. Now I'm gonna try the Doctor Who Scarf.... See ya in fourteen years.
I'll see if I can send some pics of my HoOz later.

As ever,

The Stockton Eccentric

Hey everybody;
This is a project I'm working on for spanish class; :P yes I'm going to translate it into spanish before I turn it in.
Hope you like it,
The Stockton Eccentric

This was a day in October, a bit of a soup-eating, tea-drinking day; enough wind that any rain there was drove sideways, but with so little moisture that you merely had the vague impression that someone was spitting at you from across the universe. Once in a while, it would rain, in a sprinkle of texture like noise in an ancient cathode ray tube television… but mostly it was clouds trying to play chicken, losing on account of intangibility. The trees were dancing in the wind, thrumming with the multitude of miniature collisions of the damp leaves; they resembled a slightly drier version of kelp, spiraling in currents of air, mackintosh-wearing fish ducking under its branches to avoid the rain, ineffectually.
The world was green and grey; the air, the sky, the trees, the wind, the rain, the people, the words, the ideas; everything was one or the other, or both. A Mediterranean world, so used to its adobe and tarmac, brown lawns and chain link fences, the layer of invisible ocher dust that drifted over everything and made it all dingy by association; a rusted eddy, rinsed clean by the wave of the mini monsoon that autumn had brought, brings, will bring until the weather systems are thrown completely of its course by human incompetence. It was strange; it was exhilarating; it was beautiful.
It was chilled, but being the first time in six months that anyone could remember feeling anything but roasted, no one held that against it; they still had the oppressive heat of the summer emerging from their skin, effervescing from their bones. It was good weather for soup, and poetry, and viola, if the person involved happened to enjoy that sort of thing. Otherwise – which was more often the case in that ghetto-celebrating chimera of cultures that someone had decided to call a city – they just bundled into their jackets and stuffed their IPod ear buds into their ears, attempting to ignore the maenad-like beauty that surrounded them.
And then there was me.
I was and am a plaid and corduroy figurine, too solidly built to be graceful or tossed in the gale; a bearded oval atop a flannel enshrouded rectangle with orthodontia, a stigma in one eye, and an over-large vocabulary. The semester had hit me with the curse of a dry spell in my mental functionality, which is like stealing the pajamas from a child watching their house burn to the ground; my mind is the only thing worth taking from me.
I had been sitting in the front room of our Nordic-Minimalist cookie cutter house, trying desperately to be alive, without success. I had been having dreams that seemed more real than my waking life in between them, to the point that I felt positively oneirataxical; though this has been how I’ve lived for years, it had been excessive for even my subconscious journeys.
I had decided to take a cue from the cats that lounge across our furniture and watch the windows shift in their glow, and live in silence for those few moments of respite from my schedule. In the grey of the sky I could almost feel my eyes fade to the yellow of the hattifnattarna of Finland, and my hands began to metamorphosize into their fronds, swaying to their hum of their apathy. With this attitude of emptiness, I left my cushion on the couch and found a spot next the black cat at the window, the pane shifted aside, a wall of black netting the only thing separating us from being outside.
We watched the rain. We watched the wind. We watched the silence; we watched in silence.
I was fixed into position by my fascination with those sounds, of oxygen, of chlorophyll, of hydrous hydroxide, the interaction of the atmosphere, of my sphere, of the ground and sky and every point of the compass rose…
I had found my slot; the spot that each person everyone was designed to be positioned inside of, an alcove in time and place where someone is home. Perhaps it was a rustle in the sleep of my dreams that makes my perspective of my everything. But time moves, and shifts with the motion of watch-hands and growing leaves and heaving oceans – and fleeing slots.
And I ended.
Not the me that I am, or will be, but the me that belonged precisely where and when it was; the me that is who I could be… And in a wash of confounding sentiment and confusing grammar, it left.
I still hear echoes of that moment, just like I feel the ramifications of the sunset of my mind. I feel it in the precognizant positioning of limbs and curtain of hair in the arms of someone I care for; I hear threads of its fabric in fleeting moments of déjà-vu; I smell it in the crispness between bursts of rain, or the scent of the salt wind blown across the hips of the forested hills. I haven’t forgotten it, but neither have I found it again.
And as I continue to survive, because I can do nothing else, I wait for it to find me even now.

My books, cuz I can't figure this crazy design app out.

Shelfari: Book reviews on your book blog